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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27543796">I'm Almost Me Again (You're almost You)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wispenwillows/pseuds/wispenwillows'>wispenwillows</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anachronism Stew, Cigarettes, F/M, Hadestown AU, just two kids dealing with their trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:14:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,591</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27543796</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wispenwillows/pseuds/wispenwillows</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after she’s lost everyone she’d cared about, Eponine steps off the end of the railroad line to see the last person she’d ever expected to see, in this gray little town that sits on the edge of the world. He’s the same man he was, but he’s preaching to a different congregation now. In which Eponine is Eurydice and Persephone both, and Orpheus needs saving too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 曲终人不散</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkonapage/gifts">inkonapage</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>verse the first - </em> </b>
</p><p><b> <em>remember me, love, when i'm reborn<br/></em></b> <b> <em>as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>He was the last person Eponine expected to see here in this town at the edge of the world. The last man she expected to see wiping down tables with the stringy remains of a dishrag, his yolk-yellow hair drawn back into a bun, his mouth tighter and sterner than it used to be.</p><p>He had been a man on fire. Now he looked like a man snuffed out. </p><p>But they’d been young then. Or young, once. This distinction was good to remember.</p><p>Eponine didn’t feel young anymore. The ache had settled in her marrow sometime between that long night’s purging rains and the months after, convalescing with the nuns. </p><p>She tossed her carpetbag in the booth and slid in, picking at the peeling edges of the laminate. Her tangles caught on her callouses as she tried to push a hand through. It’d been too long since she’d last had a cig, but she’d run out. </p><p>“Garçon,” she said, but really she was looking at him for any signs of recognition. He didn’t, of course. Why would he? She’d been a face in his crowd, but he’d been an idol to her masses. Shining, golden, every curve of his lips dripping devotion. Now that mouth was chapped, and was asking her if she wanted to start with a drink.</p><p>“Coffee,” she said, knowing she couldn’t afford it. “Black.”</p><p>He nodded curtly, and turned on his heel with military discipline. Those fingers had once loaded a rifle. That name had once been emblazoned on posters. Now it hung lopsided from a nametag. </p><p>E-N-J-O-L-R-A-S. It was much less impressive in a cheap sans serif. </p><p>She held out until the very last moment, allowing herself to be convinced that this time, she would let go. She would drink her coffee and get on the next train out of this windswept town and its bluster of ghosts. Drift away, and it would be like nothing ever happened.</p><p>But this time was just like every other time memory tempted. She would rather reach out to grasp at pillars of salt than consign everyone she’d ever loved to ash. So she cleared her throat.</p><p>Enjolras turned. </p><p>“Could I bum a smoke?”</p><p>For the first time, he raised his eyes to look at her, and her breath caught. Yes, he’d had that effect. Those eyes, their hard blue, always looked at things with a fervor you could mistake for love. He considered her a moment--her dark hair, her black eyes, the sad little dress she wore, which wouldn’t have looked out of place on a dance floor, but which stood out like a sore thumb here. </p><p>“Outside,” he grunted. “No smoking in the restaurant.”</p><p>She thought <em> restaurant </em> too generous a word, but didn’t press the issue. </p><p>It was just hazing outside, the dark congealing at the very corners of the horizon. He pulled out a half-empty carton of menthols and offered them to her. Gingerly, she picked one out--not that it made much of a difference--and leaned her head to his when he offered her a light. </p><p>“You used to smoke Camels,” she commented, looking up at the sharp planes of his face through her lashes. He was rendered in chiaroscuro under the halogen, hollowed, hallowed, and haloed all at once. </p><p>If he was startled, he did not show it, only leaning back against the wall and tilting his head up to watch the curls of smoke dissipate. “I used to do a lot of things.”</p><p>“You’re still famous in Paris, you know.” </p><p>He gave a light <em> tut </em>. “I doubt Paris remembers me. My family certainly doesn’t.”</p><p>“To hear you tell it once upon a time, they never were your family. Your true comrades.” The cigarette tasted rancid on her lips, and it was curdling her restraint, too. She should leave well enough alone. Just because she hadn’t allowed her own wounds to scab over didn’t mean no one else could heal.</p><p>“Once upon a time…” He considered her. “I used to love that phrase. Once upon a time, we were both children, and we believed in fantasies, Eponine Jondrette.”</p><p>Eponine allowed herself the luxury of surprise. “You know me.”</p><p>The thought was at once a horror and a revelation.</p><p>“I know you. I knew you the moment you walked in. The Jondrette girl. Marius’s shadow, they called you, but I’d liked that your mother named you after Sabinus’s wife. It seemed fitting. Fated, even.” He scoffed. “See now the hand fate dealt us.”</p><p>Something tightened in her chest. She’d been so young, so eager to please, trailing after Marius for the crumbs of his affection. “He’s still alive, you know. You could visit him if you had a care to. Paris is just a train ride away.”</p><p>With an impatient swipe, he pushed a yellow curl from his eye. “No train could bridge that distance; you know that as well as I. He would not prefer to see us.”</p><p>She did. Monsieur Fauchelevent had said as much when she’d woken up at the convent, surprised to find herself still breathing. Marius had been kind, for an aristocrat, but when the streets were swept clean again there’d been no need to dirty himself with revolution. </p><p>“You intend to stay forever?” Eponine had not imagined that for him. If she were honest, she’d not imagined any kind of future for him, even when that future seemed close at hand. He’d always seemed destined to die at the barricades. The fifth of June had dawned such a sunny day.</p><p>But Enjolras sidestepped the question. “You intend to run forever?”</p><p>“I am not running,” she insisted. </p><p>He chuckled. A real chuckle--throaty and hoarse, but warm. He flicked the last embers from his Newport and flicked the butt away. “We are the same, you and I. Heartsick and haunted, but desperate to not forget. I found the one corner of the world the ghosts wouldn’t follow, but you turned up all the same.”</p><p>“I always was a little wraith. I don’t know how you expected not to see me.” </p><p>“That’s how I knew you were alive. You never showed up in my dreams.” He smiled mournfully and pushed himself off the wall. “My break’s up,” he told her. “Enjoy the cigarette.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>quote from hozier's shrike of course</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 食尽鸟投林</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>verse the second - </em> </b>
</p><p><b> <em>hey, little songbird, cat got your tongue?<br/></em> </b> <b> <em>always a pity for one so pretty and young<br/></em></b> <b> <em>when poverty comes to clip your wings<br/></em> </b> <b></b> <strong><em>and knock the wind right out of your lungs</em></strong></p><p> </p><p>When light scattered through the warped window panes at just the right angle, Enjolras was always back at the Musain. Combeferre would be sitting in the corner, the tip of his nose stained with ink. Courfeyrac and Grantaire would be holding court amidst their crowd of libertines, cracking jokes and picking fights. It would only be for half a second—just long enough to be unburdened before the weight of it fell back upon his shoulders.</p><p>There had been a moment like that today when Eponine walked through the door. He thought he was seeing things again. Thought he was hearing the same phantom voices that sometimes intruded on his peace. </p><p>But no, Eponine Jondrette was unmistakable. Always had been, even when she trailed after Marius, attempting to flatten herself into his shadow. What sad irony presented itself in the fact that she’d never seemed more alive now, after the barricades had fallen?</p><p>She was joking with someone--one of the miners, not a regular, probably come up for a bit of fresh air--her head thrown back with wild abandon as she cackled. Recalling her propensity for jokes of a particularly blue nature, he bit back a fond smile. He’d thoroughly disapproved then, but even sour memories tasted sweet with enough years to soften them. </p><p>“Old friend?” </p><p>Enjolras startled and turned to see old Henri at his side. “You could say that.”</p><p>“You should keep her around, son. I haven’t seen you smile in a long time.”</p><p>Enjolras hummed, neither assenting or dissenting. He and Eponine had never exchanged more than a handful of words. She’d thought him pompous, and told him so. He’d thought her pathetic, but kept it to himself. Yet unanticipated circumstance welded them into more intimate bedfellows than a choice of friendship could. There was a sick sort of humour to it. An unrelenting destiny, as inevitable as the rain. </p><p>Sometimes, when he was working his third double shift in as many days for no overtime, he’d allow himself to imagine how he would organize a strike. How he would convince people to unionise. How easily the mind shifted back into old habits. </p><p>“Are you singing tonight?” Henri asked.</p><p>“Monseigneur Eudes has not paid me to do so,” Enjolras said. “So I think I’ll spare myself the extra effort, if it’s all the same to you.”</p><p>“Have it your way,” Henrie shrugged, wiping down the bar. “It’s nice for everyone to have a spot of music after a long day’s work; makes the time slip smoother.”</p><p>Eudes may have been the king of the mines, which in this town made him the king of everything, but the Caffè Lena was unquestionably Henrie’s territory. He’d been here sixty years, he’d told Enjolras once, and he’ll be here sixty years more. Enjolras glanced at him, at the deep wrinkles creased into his umber skin, and wondered if he’d had dangerous dreams too.</p><p>“Whatever happened in Paris--” Henri started, but Enjolras jerked instinctively away from the old man’s kindly touch. </p><p>“<em>Pardon</em>,” Henri murmured. <em> But I am the one who needs pardoning</em>, Enjolras thought bitterly. Henri didn’t stop, though. “Whatever happened in Paris, that is the past. Whatever mistakes you’ve made, I’m certain you have already atoned for them in the eyes of the Lord.”</p><p>“You don’t know what I’ve done,” said Enjolras. He didn’t deserve atonement. And the past would never stay the past. Not when Eponine was sitting not five metres from him, her very face a reminder of all he had broken. </p><p>They were the last two left, and only when they were together did it seem possible that the Musain was once a real place filled with real people. Apart, they were just two more lonely souls grieving a lost world.</p><p>He wondered if the world grieved them. </p><p>The bell above the door chimed as it opened, sending a chill wind down Enjolras’s spine. A man with stark hair and a red boutonnière stalked in, followed by the smell of pines and winter. </p><p>Enjolras exchanged a glance with Henri, who handed over his dishrag and went over to greet the younger man. </p><p>“Monseigneur Eudes,” Henri said with a slight tilt of the head. Eudes acknowledged this with a pinch of the mouth. “We had no expectation of your company tonight.” </p><p>The implication was loud, though no one wanted to give it voice. <em> You are not welcome</em>. Eudes was a man known for his meticulous decorum, not his kindness, and Enjolras wished Henri would know when to stop pushing. As the rent got higher and higher, Henri had only gotten more and more brusque--a quality Enjolras recognised well in himself, and hated. </p><p>“I’ve come for my songbird,” Eudes said, his voice a dark throaty husk of a thing. “And I’ve come for a song.”</p><p>He flipped a silver coin in Enjolras’s direction. </p><p>“This is less than we’ve agreed to,” he said, before he could think better of it. </p><p>Eudes raised an eyebrow, and Enjolras was quick to add, “Monseigneur.” </p><p>“If you’re nice, I’ll add a tip to sweeten the pot.”</p><p>Enjolras bit down on his bottom lip to keep from speaking, but he couldn’t keep the heat from his cheeks. Shame flooded him. From across the room, Eponine sought his eyes. He turned away and wished she would leave, wished she would remember him as he had been and not as he was now.</p><p>He should have died at the barricades.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>quote from hadestown, chapter title from the poem of the same name by cao xueqin</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 人间烟火</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>verse the third - </em> </b>
</p><p><b> <em>freshly disowned in some frozen devotion<br/></em></b> <b> <em>no more alone or myself could I be<br/></em> </b> <b><em>lurched like a stray to the arms that were open</em></b><em><br/></em> <strong><em>no shortage of sordid, no protest from me</em></strong></p><p> </p><p>His voice had deepened with the intervening years, and aged, but in the way leather aged. The clear, pure tenor had become warmer and softer with time, the difference between a godly and a human love.</p><p>She folded her hands around her cup of coffee and closed her eyes. </p><p>He could pretend to the world that his heart had gone sour, that his eyes were no longer starry, but his voice was full hope, full of yearning. She’d heard him sing only once before, and remembered thinking that with a voice like <em> that </em>, it was no wonder people listened to what he had to say.</p><p>The song lingered well after it ended, the last note a fragile sigh in the air. She opened her eyes to find his closed, his hair dulling into that murky flaxen again. His right hand floated for a moment before it dropped, and then a scatter of applause staccatoed the air. One set of hands lifted above the fray, sharp as firecrackers. It was the new man, the strange man, with his oil-black hair and his death-white skin. </p><p>“It’s a pity that talent dies in the darkness. I’m sure you could have been a prophet in another life.” The man smiled--more of a curl of the lips, really--and then turned on his heel to walk out of the cafe, taking his three lackeys with him. </p><p>“Wait.” The word was out of Eponine’s mouth before she knew what she was doing. </p><p>But the man kept walking. </p><p>“I said <em> wait</em>.” She grabbed him by the arm, and he froze, looking down at the pale brown hand resting on his pinstriped silks with the same derision someone might offer the dogshit under their heel. </p><p>“You said you’d tip him.” She could feel Enjolras come up behind her, felt his hand, urgent, repressive, on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. </p><p>“Do you know who I am?”</p><p>“I don’t care who you are,” she said honestly. “You can’t treat people like that.”</p><p>“And what would you know about how people ought to be treated?” </p><p>“Enough,” she said, jutting her chin. “Enough to know how to treat a jackass when I meet one.” </p><p>The man finally turned to look at her, and Eponine drew instinctively back from the blue of his eyes, so pale and so clear they actually looked frosted over. As though he hadn’t ever thawed. He was just on the edge of striking and strange, with a fine, straight nose and gaunt cheeks which, combined with his shock of dark hair, made him look somewhere between a crow and a skeleton. </p><p>For one long moment he stared at her, and for the full length of that long moment no one in the room dared breathe. Eponine threw her head back and tried to stare boldly, fearlessly back, but this was only the same sick bravado she felt when Papa was in his cups and she knew she was saying too much. Dancing on the edge of the line, always toeing it to know just where it lay, terrified that she’d  already crossed it. Perversely, she never stopped taunting him, no matter how badly she bruised after, because in its own small, sad way, that was some kind of victory: even if at the end of the day she was the one bleeding and sore, he won’t have been what broke her.</p><p>The man didn’t yell, though, nor did he rage. Instead he burst into laughter. </p><p>“How amusing,” he said. “You must think you’re being very brave.”</p><p>“Not brave,” Eponine corrected. “Stupid. Impulsive. But not wrong.”</p><p>“Oh?” The man quirked a finely arched brow. “And you’d like me to do the right thing, is that it?”</p><p>“You should do the right thing whether I like it or not.” </p><p>He laughed again, and beckoned at one of his lackeys, who brought over a string of coins. He counted them out loud so that everyone could hear just what a pittance Enjolras was worth, milking every humiliation from his concession. When he handed it over he did so palm side down, as though he were offering money to a beggar. Eponine moved to protest, but Enjolras clamped a hand down on her wrist, and shook his head. </p><p>But just as she was reaching out to take the money from him he snatched his hand back. “I want you to remember one thing, birdie. In this world there is no such thing as right and wrong, good or evil. Those are fairytales told to children who aren’t old enough to know any better. There is only power, and those who do not have it.”</p><p>And then the coins dropped heavily into her hand, coated with a thin layer of oil and dust she had to wipe off against the leg of her overalls.</p><p>Before he left the cafe, he turned to say one last thing: “See me at the manor tomorrow. It’s been so long since I’ve been entertained.”</p><p>Then the door closed on his heel, and he disappeared into the dusk. </p><p>Eponine let out a breath. “What the hell was that?” </p><p>She turned to see Enjolras, his brows knit and his eyes hidden by a long sweep of lashes. She’d never seen him look so timid before. When he didn’t answer, an older man stepped in to speak for him. “That’s the mayor. Eudes.”</p><p>“Seems awfully rich for a mayor,” said Eponine. “Awfully involved.”</p><p>Enjolras shrugged. “Mayor, master, manager of the mines, what difference does it make? He owns most of this town. It wasn’t worth it, what you did. At the end of the day the money’s his anyway. It’s only a matter of time.”</p><p>Cocking her head, she stepped closer to him. She saw the faint flutter of his eyelashes, the dip of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, and as she slipped the coins into those long-fingered hands, she bent her lips to the shell of his ear to whisper, “What’s happened to you?”</p><p>His answer was so quiet she would have missed it were she not so close. </p><p>“Penance.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>quote from angel of the small death &amp; the codeine scene</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 思凡</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>verse the fourth - </em> </b>
</p><p><b> <em>i knew that look dear, eyes always seeking<br/></em> </b> <b> <em>was there in someone that dug long ago<br/></em> </b> <b><em>so i will not ask you why you were creeping</em></b><em><br/></em> <strong><em>in some sad way i already know</em></strong></p><p> </p><p>Enjolras watched her leave. </p><p>He watched her leave and entertained the idea of letting her go. </p><p>It was a good thing to let go. If he had let go of his ideals, his friends would not be buried in pauper’s graves. But going meant forgetting, and forgetting meant absolution, and if there was one thing on this earth he did not deserve to be, it was absolved. So he called her to keep her, to keep her in the way a mortification of monks might cling to their scourges. </p><p>“Stay with me,” he blurted. “I mean—that is to say that I have a bed, and it is late.”</p><p>“Plenty of men have said that to me, monsieur.” Eponine eyed him, equal parts wry and amused. </p><p>His cheeks burned. “I only meant—”</p><p>But she lay a hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. “I’m joking,” she said, with none of the hard edge of mockery she once would have had. “Thanks for offering.” </p><p>The rest of his shift passed more or less uneventfully, and it was well into the early morning by the time they left the Caffè Lena. Soft rain had started pattering the cobblestone, the kind of dewy mist that clung to lashes and coats but was not quite wet. </p><p>“I didn’t think to bring an umbrella,” Eponine murmured, watching as he locked up. </p><p>“Don’t worry,” he said. “My place is only a few blocks from here.”</p><p>They walked in silence through the night. The soft gold of the gas lamps bled into the haze, lending everything a blurry, unfocused look, like edges ceased to cleave apart the world around them, like no borders separated the ripples in the street from the stars they reflected. </p><p>Eponine trailed a few paces behind him. The rain in her hair fractured the streetlights into a halo, as though she had suddenly caught flame. It had been many years since Enjolras had believed in any god at all, but he’d grown up in a house of saints and their likenesses, and with her strong nose and wild dark hair there was an intensity to her that brought them to mind. The portraits his father had hung in their parlour had all been titled things like <em> The Passion of St. Alexius </em> and <em> The Ecstasy of St. Theresa. The Adoration of Eponine Jondrette. </em></p><p>He recalled the paintings as having been particularly grotesque, each seized by some violence of emotion, contorted by a rapture he did not understand. Looking back now, it was more likely that at seven he had only mistook what was beautiful about them for what was repulsive, for even then he must have had some intimation of how thin the border between violence and ardor were, how very ugly love could turn you. How base. How desperate.</p><p>And what did Saint Eponine believe in? He couldn’t help sneaking glances back.</p><p>“You can walk next me, you know. Instead of following behind.”</p><p>She glanced up at him, and for a second their eyes met. </p><p>“Our revolution might not have survived, but we can still treat each other like equals.” He offered her a shy half smile.</p><p>“How very bold of you to say so here, Citizen Enjolras.” </p><p>And then they reached his apartment, a dingy little walkup on the fifth floor of a crumbling building that never fully dried out. The handrails were slimy as they ascended, and when he flicked on his halogens they buzzed unpleasantly, casting an otherworldly red light through the room.</p><p>“Like the fires of hell,” Eponine joked, which was uncomfortably close to the mark. “You live like this?”</p><p>Enjolras snickered despite himself. “You say that like it surprises you.” He’d always kept sparsely-furnished flats, though admittedly this was sparer than most—a single room with a beat up old mattress (no box spring), a small coffee table (no chair), a gas burner (no oven), and a bookshelf (no books). </p><p>“Take the bed,” he said to her, shucking off his threadbare coat and hanging it by the door. “I’ll take the floor.”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid,” Eponine scoffed. “The floor’s disgusting. We’ll share the bed, you prude.”</p><p>He flushed deeply, suddenly grateful for the dim lights.</p><p>Nina showered first, at his insistence, and by the time he washed up the water was cold and muddy—not that it ever really ran clear. Enjolras watched it gurgle down the drain, the crusty foam catching on long curly strands of dark hair. The small room smelled ineffably of her. It was a scent he couldn’t quite place before right now, this moment, but as he did he realised that he’d come to associate it with the Musain, a particular blend of cloves and firewood and damp that was earthy and bitter and rich. </p><p>He was bleary-eyed as he stepped out of the shower, balancing himself on the chipped enamel of the bathroom sink to towel off. He shoved a hand through his own curls. Tired blue eyes looked back at him from the mirror, and if he didn’t know better he wouldn’t have believed they were his own. Enjolras had spent years dreaming of seeing someone from his past here, and then he’d spent years dreading it. </p><p>It would be her, of course. </p><p>Of course it would be her.</p><p>They shared so little in life; it only seemed just that in death they should share so much.</p><p>She was curled up under his blankets by the time he came out. When had he last laundered?</p><p>“I’ve warmed the blanket for you,” Eponine said archly. </p><p>Enjolras wondered if she played coy for the same reason he played aloof, if they were different ways to protect the same kind of fragile heart. He wasn’t brave enough to ask her, though, so he crawled into his bed instead, murmuring <em> sorry </em> when his leg accidentally brushed hers. </p><p>They were an awkward tangle, the two of them, sleeping too close together on opposite sides of his only pillow. Her hair was in his mouth and his elbows would dig into her ribs no matter how much he tried to tuck them into himself, but by the early dawn they’d each managed to contort themselves into a passably comfortable position.</p><p>In the quiet even soft noises seemed loud—the creak of a bedspring, the whisper of wind that rustled through the curtain, the lone footsteps of a stranger finally going home for the night. It was so still for so long that Enjolras thought she had fallen asleep until she spoke.</p><p>“I used to think you were the bravest man I knew. Even braver than Marius.” </p><p>Enjolras shifted under his blanket. The lamp outside was flickering—had been flickering for weeks now—and the eerie yellow light filled the room with stale lightning. “I used to wish you were braver, but I think I know now what bravery’s worth when there’s not enough money to put food on the table.” </p><p>She turned to face him, a sliver of moving shadow. He could just see the shape of a cheek etched out from the dark. “And does working in a cafe do that for you? Put food on the table?” </p><p>“It does,” he said. “Enough.” He didn’t tell her about the way hunger had become his constant companion, the way it staved off the loneliness and made him feel like flesh and bone again. “Are you leaving tomorrow, then?”</p><p>The unasked question he didn’t want to give shape to: will I never see you again? </p><p>It was nice to have her while she was here. To know that what happened to them was real. He couldn’t hope for much more than that. </p><p>But she surprised him with her answer. “Actually, I thought I might go see your Monsieur Eudes.”</p><p>“He interests you?”</p><p>“Cruel men always interest me.” </p><p>He remembered a boy with a wicked smile and a propensity for daggers. He remembered Marius, who never needed to look behind him to be assured she was there. “There are better things to court than the interest of cruel men, Eponine.”</p><p>“But do I deserve better things?”</p><p>Enjolras snorted. “Don’t be precocious; it doesn’t suit you.”</p><p>“No, you wear it much more naturally,” she sniped back. “Though you’re funner when you’re being catty.”</p><p>He laughed, and then sighed. “I’m just saying that it would do you no harm to be careful. Eudes...he has a reputation.”</p><p>The sheets shifted as Eponine turned to face the ceiling again. “Don’t you worry about me,” she said. “I have a reputation, too.”</p><p>He didn’t think the two were precisely equal, not really, but he didn’t push back. It had been easier for him to wield his words as a cudgel when the ghost of what remained didn’t haunt his every thought. Every next word might be the one that drove her away, and he didn’t have nearly enough friends left to afford losing another. So he bit back what he was going to say, let it wash away in the cool ocean of night. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>quote from like real people do; the bit about the gas lamps ceasing to separate the borders of the world is a reference to "monet refuses the operation" by lisel mueller</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I only care about character studies so i’m sorry about the lack of, as usual, plot.</p><p>Shout to to AO3 user inkonapage, who came up with this AU and has not let me bully her into finishing hers</p></blockquote></div></div>
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